


The Before and the After, and the Fall that Separates

by katydidordidnt



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, angel lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katydidordidnt/pseuds/katydidordidnt
Summary: Raphaelneither slinks down past Earth to the fires, nor winks out near the surface.Raphaelremains bright and strong, flickering like a summer lightning bug, and then settles near the outskirts of London.Omia, with sweat running rivulets down her cheeks and her arms shaking from exertion, stares and stares and stares until the glow blurs with Heaven around her.Raphael is on Earth.





	The Before and the After, and the Fall that Separates

**Author's Note:**

> There's been some speculation about Crowley's Heavenly origins, and a popular fan theory stuck in my head and absolutely _germinated._ I'm a huge sucker for Outsider!POV, so this is a love letter to all my favorite tropes and this absolutely excellent show. (Apologies for being TV-only, as the book has a double-digit queue at my local library currently.)

Angels don't dream.

Strictly speaking, angels don't sleep, and therefore, they don't dream, but the idea of dreams, the mechanics and energy and tight spirals of reality and unreality— _that_ angels know and understand. The how and why may lie beyond them, but dreams were one of Her designs, and angels are well-versed in all Creation.

Angels can, if needed, slip into humans dreams and alter them; seldom, of course, as such interference tends to draw attention, particularly if the human in question is particularly influential. But they have, from time to time, entered the realm of dreams to send messages and proclamations, and by extension, they have felt the strange web-like quality human dreams are made of.

Angels don't dream.

But demons do.

++

Omia is a seraph. She's proud to be a seraph, and prouder still of the work she does in Her name, but even she has to admit Heaven has been a bit of a mess since the aborted Apocalypse. Truth be told, those in charge weren't prepared for the possibility of the Apocalypse _not_ happening; in fact, they were so sure the world would be sundered in the war of Heaven and Hell that they'd made absolutely no contingency plans, and, as such, little existed to remain in the unlikely scenario.

The world was most decidedly meant to end three months ago, and though it hadn't, Heaven remains fumbling and wobbling, unsure of the next steps.

This is a problem. Heaven is _never_ unsure of the next steps.

Omia keeps her head down, for seraphs are to be commanded, made for following orders—it's only that, see, there _are_ no orders. The voice of the Lord has been silent, too silent, and the Heavenly Host bickers over what to do next. The archangels argue and posture, but ultimately stay their hands, and the seraph have received no orders since the day the Apocalypse had been foreseen to occur on.

See, no one could get angry at her for seeking out the next step. It's frightfully dull in Heaven without any goal to be working towards, and while she doesn't know humans quite well enough to make any bold declarations, Omia rather thought the Host could do with one of those motivational posters. Perhaps of a bird in a storm, unsure of where to land. Someone might as well purchase a chalk board and keep a running tally: _It's been 92 days since the failed Apocalypse._

So when she hears the archangels are having yet another meeting, in the stark white meeting room with stretched tables, she waits around the corner, careful to keep out of the reflection of the mirrored wall Gabriel is so fond of. If her superiors won't give her orders, she will find them on her own.

Uriel, Michael, and Gabriel are within, along with Sandalphon, who appears to be taking furious notes on an aging clipboard. Even Omia knows how to work a laptop; couldn't the Host adopt better human technology? She creeps forward, fingers pressing against cool tiles, and pushes closer to the glass.

“...problem is there's too few of us now,” Uriel is saying. “With the full Battalion, we would have—”

“That doesn't matter,” Gabriel snaps. “Not anymore. The rest are gone. It's only us.”

Michael leans in closer to the table. “But what if it wasn't? Perhaps we simply can't see Her vision.”

“And the others could?” Gabriel snorts. “The others who, oh, I don't know, either died or _Fell_? You think _they_ would better understand the Plan? Better than us?”

 _Oh._ Why, Omia hadn't thought of that, but before humanity, before Eden and the Tree, there'd been a great many archangels. Their triumphant voices used to fill the sky as they battled the forces of darkness—or were banished to become one of them. Of course; names on the roster had been long blotted out, but a good many of them had met an undetermined fate.

“With more voices, we could bypass the Metatron,” Michael says. “We could speak to _Her_.”

Speak directly to God? Omia's heart clenches, figuratively, in her chest.

“What good would more of us do?” Gabriel asks. “We'd never get past that old bastard. He's too proud of his post.”

“Power,” Uriel replies. “ _Power_ , Gabriel.”

Gabriel throws his hands up. “There are none of us left! These are our numbers. Do you think there's an archangel hiding out on Earth, biding time? They're either _dead_ or _Fallen_. End of discussion. We find another way past Metatron.”

Omia pushes back away from the glass, eyes wide. 

Could it be, though? Could there be an archangel who somehow, against all odds, _has_ somehow survived? Could the missing archangels ever truly be found? If they are dead, at least Heaven would have an answer besides the jagged ink line through their names. And if worse, well, at least they would all know.

Skirting along Heaven's sharp edges, Omia schemes.

Scheming is not recommended in Heaven.

Omia does it anyway.

++

Crowley dreams.

Not often, thank whoever has seen to that, but enough. He sleeps when he's tired or irritated, or, like in the 14th century, when the humans have seen fit to create an absolute shitshow Crowley has no interest in participating in. And sometimes, he dreams, snippets of the world he once knew; blindingly white, of course, and just enough to rattle free memories he'd rather keep right where they are, locked behind several thousand years of steel traps.

When he wakes from a Memory Dream, the kind that requires all capital letters, the like that steals his breath from his lungs and threatens to choke him, he is usually covered in a cold sweat. It's not very becoming to be a harbinger of evil and experience nightmares, so no one downstairs particularly likes to talk about it. But Crowley dreams of Before and wakes shrouded in the tattered remains of what Heaven felt like, and those dreams are usually the precursors to a lengthy bender or a smattering of truly angry curses.

The Memory Dreams are the worst, and Crowley has a sinking suspicion Heaven had something to do with it. For what better way to punish your Fallen soldiers than allow them to remember, just for a moment, just for a gasp, what the light of the Divine Love felt like?

Crowley dreams, and he despises it.

++

It takes a few days, but she manages to sneak into the armory to steal the list of missing archangels. Summoning angels on Earth is all well and good with new technology and a specific location, but locating _lost_ ones—well. That is a completely different matter. There are a great many hoops to jump through, and not all of them are sanitary; Omia understands why the Host never went around doing it on a long shot.

The summoning spell requires a vast number of ingredients, and many are particularly hard to come by. Unicorn blood hasn't been available in the wild since the Flood, but some pagan practitioners claim to have some. Omia tries five before she finds a vial that's legitimate. Then there's the essence of a saint, which requires hunting down several artifacts in a myriad of surprisingly well-guarded churches. And the last difficult one is the blood of a demon...and for that Omia has to go to Earth.

She waits until she feels the tendrils of temptation and then pounces, and it's likely only luck she's caught a rather low-ranking messenger demon rather than any of the Princes of Hell. Still, she only needs a bit of the blood, and nicking the woman's arm in a fight produces the added benefit of the illusion of a struggle. The demon gets away, and Omia collects the blood from the blade of her knife.

Then she settles herself into an unused corner of Heaven, still bright and stark like the rest of it. Had she been on Earth, she assumes the floor would be covered in a layer of undisturbed dust. The Host were creatures of habit and routine, and rarely did they venture outside their usual circles.

Omia combines her ingredients, consults the list, and draws her first archangel rune in the mixture of blood, powder, and sand.

 _Remiel_ tastes of ash and locates a small patch of sandy beach off the western coast of Sierra Leone. Omia goes there with a heavy heart and unearths a scattering of bleach-white bones. _Remiel_ gets a second line dragged mournfully across the characters on the list.

 _Jeremiel_ bounces and freezes and can't find a single spot until it sinks lower and lower, falling out of Human sight completely. Omia certainly doesn't wish to deal with a Fallen, and so _Jeremiel_ is smudged out with thick blots.

By _Saraqael_ , Omia is exhausted, her reserves depleted, and her mixture half gone, and follows the locator to a section of ocean littered with rust-covered ship remains and hard-shelled mollusks. _Hanael_ yields similar results off the coast of Australia, and Omia doesn't bother to attempt to retrieve the bones. Both receive a double-line on the crinkling parchment.

There is only enough left for one more, and Omia's hands, the feeble things, are shaking. Angels have no need for sleep, yet Omia suddenly craves it more than she's ever wished for anything else. A sign, of course, that she should turn back immediately, but she can't stop while one chance remains.

 _Raphael_ neither slinks down past Earth to the fires, nor winks out near the surface. _Raphael_ remains bright and strong, flickering like a summer lightning bug, and then settles near the outskirts of London.

Omia, with sweat running rivulets down her cheeks and her arms shaking from exertion, stares and stares and stares until the glow blurs with Heaven around her.

Raphael is on Earth.

++

“Yes, you look absolutely beautiful today,” Aziraphale coos to a lovely potted pansy plant as he sets it out on the weathered porch. “Don't you dare listen to a word otherwise; you are not to give in to any demonic demands or threats. Just keep being your beautiful self.”

The plant, pleased, wriggles, leaves shiny and green and to the untrained eye, amazingly perfect. Aziraphale gives the flower one final tap and smile before moving onto the next.

As far as locations go, it isn't the best; the porch receives more sun than most plants could stand, and to avoid a multitude of wilting greenery outside the front door, the pots have to be rotated quite often. Still, they love soaking in the sun, and the inside of the cottage simply doesn't offer enough for true flourishing, so Aziraphale took the job with pride.

He hums a little song as he mists them with water. There's tea inside, and a box of biscuits, and he's eager to get to both. So eager, in fact, that he completely misses the figure stumbling up to the front gate and staggering inside until she's halfway up the path to the front door.

When he sees her, he promptly drops the watering can. “Dear me! I didn't see you coming!”

Her eyes, unfocused and glassy, skate right past him, and that's what he knows, a deep thrumming in his bones, that she's one of the Host. Defenses rising, he squares his shoulders and straightens his chest. He'd hoped to avoid the fight, and Lord knows he'd prayed for far more time, but it is what it is; if Heaven has come for him, he is not unprepared to fight.

“Now, you listen,” he says, aiming for menacing and not _quite_ managing to fully disguise the tremor in his voice. “I won't be going back with you, and I won't be taking any further orders. I've asked you to please leave me alone, and in light of the situation, well, I think it's only fair that you comply with my request.”

The angel falters, pressing a trembling hand to her face. Her eyes roll a little, exposing white.

Aziraphale, fight quite forgotten, leaps forward to help steady her. “Goodness! Are you alright? You look terrible, my dear, and you really ought not to tax your body in such a way. Why, if you'll only sit down here...”

“I've come,” the angel says, raspy and hoarse. “I've come for...”

“Yes, for me, I know; but really, even with that being true, I can't let you simply faint dead away in my front garden.”

She shakes her head. Bits of her hair have come loose, and the tendrils stick to the sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looks as if she walked halfway across the Earth itself, covered in dust and mud and Heaven knows what else. Why, a single blast of wind could very well knock her right down, let alone a Principality eager to remain untethered from his superiors.

“I've come for...” Her eyes finally focus somewhere above Aziraphale's shoulder as the front door creaks open. “Raphael.”

“Raphael?” Aziraphale repeats, thoroughly flabbergasted.

The angel's eyes roll fully back as her body flops gracelessly to the ground. Aziraphale only just catches her weight before she hits the dirt, and lowers her down slowly with shaking hands. Then he swallows hard, closes his eyes briefly, and then turns.

Crowley stands in the doorway, looking down from the front stoop at them both with an expression so neutral, Aziraphale would never have placed it on the demon's face.

“Raphael?” Aziraphale repeats, much lower and very near a whisper.

Crowley blinks. “Well, bring her in, then.”

“You can't be serious!”

Crowley holds the door open, absently swatting at a fly trying to buzz in next to him. “Took six thousand years longer than I expected, but they're finally here. Wouldn't do to let her lay out there in the dirt, I suppose.”

“Crowley—”

“Come on, angel; the kettle's whistling. Don't want your tea to go cold, do you?”

++

They sit later across from each other at the table, and Aziraphale's tea has indeed gone cold, but between his hands, in the mug he can't bring himself to sip from. Neither of them makes eye contact. The angel is out cold on the couch, and for a long time, only silence stretches between the corners of the kitchen.

“You never said,” Aziraphale says, finally, quietly, into his tea.

“You never asked,” comes the response.

“No.” Aziraphale breathes in, holds it, and then lets it out. “No, I suppose I never did.”

“It doesn't change anything,” Crowley says. It sounds forced, a touch too angry, a bluster reserved for covering up rattled nerves. “Everything is still the same as it was.”

“Are you speaking for your benefit or for mine?”

Crowley's frown deepens. His fingers tap out an erratic rhythm against the tabletop. “Don't… don't pretend this was on me. You could have guessed. You could have asked.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, soft. “I could have.”

“Why didn't you? Weren't you curious?”

“Truthfully?” Aziraphale lets out another breath in a long whistle. “No. I—no. I never thought about it.”

Crowley's eyes, from behind the sunglasses, shine, and Aziraphale can't quite put a finger on which emotion shimmers there. “How?”

“It didn't matter. It still doesn't. I know you, as you are now, and that's enough for me.”

“It should matter!”

Aziraphale tilts his head, studying his companion. “Why?”

“I—” Crowley stumbles, teeth snapping shut. “I was an archangel.”

“Yes, it would appear so.”

“Well, it certainly mattered upstairs.”

“You know, I've really no idea, but is there such a thing as… as an arch _demon_?”

Crowley starts, frowns, and resumes his finger-drumming. “You know, that's really a very good question. No one's ever asked me that before. We've the Princes of Hell, certainly, but little else to distinguish. Just… flies.”

They grow silent again. A bee buzzes near the kitchen window. Aziraphale stares down at his tea for a long moment before saying, “You were an archangel.”

“I was.” A whisper, barely.

Aziraphale straightens. “You were an archangel and the best you could manage in the past fifty years was turning the M25 into an unholy sigil?”

“Started the whole thing on fire, though, didn't it?”

Aziraphale stares at him, and Crowley stares back, and then Aziraphale is laughing, quite unable to hold it in and unsure where the whole bubble of mirth started. He's laughing, and Crowley is laughing, and pretty soon neither of them can breathe at all, wheezing and gasping at the chamomile-scented air of the kitchen.

As the sensation passes, Aziraphale rises and moves beside Crowley's chair. The other is still holding himself taut, warily nervous, and he lifts his chin to watch Aziraphale's movements until he stops.

“My darling,” Aziraphale says, and reaches out to run his fingers down Crowley's cheek, “you must know this changes nothing about the way I see you. Nothing at all.”

Crowley sighs, sagging in relief, which turns his face further into Aziraphale's palm. They stay like that for several moments, with Aziraphale's heart thudding against his ribs, until a bleary voice from the living room calls out, “Raphael?”

++

The angel, called Omia, sits hunched at the opposite end of the table. Aziraphale had given her tea out of politeness, but like most, she has left it untouched. She did, however, fix her eyes on the wisps of steam curling out from the top of the mug, entranced.

“You're… him,” she says. Her voice is still weak, her skin still waxy; whatever she did, it demanded a hefty toll on her physical form. “Crowley.”

“Yup.”

“The demon who stopped the Apocalypse.” Her gaze tracks to Aziraphale. “And the angel who did the same.”

“Present,” Aziraphale says, with a little wave of his fingers.

It doesn't appear to amuse her. Her shoulders fold inward, making her seem very small. “You're a demon. After all this time.”

“Didn't you know?” Crowley asks.

“The spell didn't inform me I would be dealing with a Fallen,” she replies, “only that you were on Earth.”

Crowley's mouth pinches. “What the hell were you even hoping for?”

“I thought… I thought I could find the missing archangels.”

“And?” Aziraphale asks.

Omia's chin rises, defiant. “I did. Some of them. But they're all dead. Dead or… worse.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley from the corner of his vision, checking to see if the conversation has gone too far wrong, but the demon doesn't react. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly, but nothing more. In the months after stopping the end of the world, Aziraphale has taken to watching Crowley. He'd learned the other's ticks a long time ago, but there are smaller, more subtle things he's never had the chance to truly know. Three months of circling each other, sharing the small cottage as they do their best to keep an eye on Adam Young, and Aziraphale has a much better handle on his companion's moods, his fears, his posturing.

Here and now, Crowley is on edge, but the familiar smell of the kitchen has soothed over many of the rough parts. There is something to be said about that. Without really thinking, Aziraphale slides his hand over to rest atop Crowley's, squeezing the lithe fingers briefly. Then, his chest seizes; has he gone too far? In the presence of one of the Host? They've done this before, naturally, in the months living together, usually accompanied with soft smiles and averted gazes, but perhaps he's leapt too far in the sight of another.

As the air leaves his lungs painfully, Crowley swallows hard, throat bobbing. He doesn't pull away, but his fingers do shift and flip to tangle within Aziraphale's own.

“Why, exactly, are you even _looking_ for the archangels, my dear?” Aziraphale asks their guest, hoping to draw everyone's attention away from their linked hands against the wooden tabletop.

“Gabriel and the others mentioned it,” comes the surprising answer. “They need power to bypass Metatron and speak directly to Her.”

“Metatron?” Aziraphale repeats, feeling like he's done an awful lot of surprised parroting in the past hour. Then, things become clearer. “Of course. To hear the true Ineffable Plan.”

“They're still in chaos?” Crowley asks, very nonchalantly, while glaring at a spot on the wall next to him.

“Terribly. No one knows what to do anymore.”

Aziraphale winces. “Hence the desire to go around Metatron. I understand, of course; the old snob wouldn't let me by when I called, either.”

Omia gives a large sniff, clearly distraught. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what, dear?”

“Avert Armageddon. Wasn't it in the plan?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to compose himself, and then says, “Well, you see… we rather enjoy Earth. I've really no desire to see the whole thing destroyed. Humans can be silly, but also rather ingenious when you spend some time around them.”

Omia's eyes skitter across the table and the kitchen, landing heavily on their still-joined hands. “Is that all?”

Crowley's fingers shake, but Aziraphale offers another reassuring squeeze. “I think it's about time for you to return now, isn't it? Whatever you wished to find here...”

“It won't work,” Omia finishes. She looks glum, but in agreement. “There's no archangel here, not really.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale rises. “Have a few sips of tea for the journey back, and keep your chin up. Heaven will sort itself out soon enough, won't it? And you'll have orders again.”

Omia follows suit, resigned. “And you two?”

“We'll stay here to watch over our young Adam,” Aziraphale says. “He's very impressionable, you see, and will be in need of some guidance.”

She takes his answer without much of a reaction.

“Keep cheery,” Aziraphale continues, voice lower. “God is still there and still watching. You aren't alone.”

“Yes,” Omia says, and sniffs a bit. She wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. Then she looks to Crowley again and does a strange, aborted half-bow, just at the waist, with enough jerky movements to send her long ponytail flying. “I'm… glad to know you aren't dead, after everything.”

Crowley stands and shoves his hands into his pockets, a move which, given the size of said pockets, practically defies the laws of physics. “Are you going to tell the others? Gabriel and the lot?”

“The archangels? No. I… don't think it would help.”

“Good.” Crowley jerks his head to the side, exhaling loudly. “Michael's a wanker.”

Aziraphale struggles to keep his expression under control as he leads Omia back outside through the front door. The garden will have to do as a take-off spot; he hopes she has enough energy returned after her nap to get all the way back. It wouldn't do to strand the angel in Iceland or something because she couldn't quite make the jump yet.

“Principality Aziraphale,” she says, suddenly straight-backed and serious. “Thank you for the tea.”

She hadn't drunk a drop, but perhaps it was the thought that counts. “You're very welcome.”

“I won't bother you again. I'm sorry I arrived unannounced.”

“It's just fine.” 

She pulls her white jacket back into place and then nods, satisfied with the outcome. She gives him one last look before shimmering and disappearing. It's a neat, tidy departure, and it helps settle Aziraphale's worries over her not making it back. He stands among the potted flowers for a long while, staring up at the achingly blue sky, and then goes back inside the house.

++

Hours later, they sit on the porch in a slightly uncomfortable wicker loveseat neither of them has bothered to re-cushion. They're three bottles of wine into a miracled crate, but Aziraphale hasn't tasted the vintage in hours. Worry blooms in his chest, unfolding like the petals of the pansies surrounding him.

Crowley has said nothing in the past sixty-four minutes, not that Aziraphale has been painstakingly counting.

“Do you dream about it?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly, and the words burst out so unbidden he surprises even himself. When Crowley glances over with raised eyebrows, he amends, “Heaven, I mean.”

In the past, Crowley might have deflected the question entirely, made an off-putting joke or remark, and casually allowed the prod at his defenses to slide by. But they are both too shaken by the day's events, exposed in a way neither, perhaps, ever anticipated.

“Sometimes,” he answers, and takes a long sip of his wine.

“I've always wondered about dreams,” Aziraphale says. He sighs. “The Human mind can be so alarmingly fragile when it wants to be.”

“A serious design flaw.”

They sit quietly for several more minutes, until Crowley fidgets, wine sloshing up at the rim of his glass. “Alright, ask it.”

“Ask what, dear?”

“The question that's been sitting on your tongue since the angel showed up.”

Aziraphale thinks briefly of demurring, and then decides against it. He thinks of the best way to phrase it and finds nothing. Might as well just get it over with. “Do you remember me? From your time Before?”

“Not really,” is the answer, and somehow, that's exactly the response Aziraphale was hoping for. The air leaves his lungs in a rush as Crowley continues, “In name only, perhaps. We didn't fraternize much outside the ranks.”

A smile creeps over Aziraphale's face, and he can't fight it back, nor does he wish to. It takes a moment for Crowley to notice. “What are you grinning about over there?”

“I'm just happy,” Aziraphale says. “I suppose I was afraid you _did_ know me from before, and it affected our relationship.”

“You wouldn't want that?”

“I want you to know me from our time spent together, on the same side—even if that was before I knew we really had one.”

When he turns to the side, Crowley's pushed his sunglasses up, and his golden eyes are very fond. “Angel.”

Perhaps it's the wine, or the strangeness of the day, or the way the setting sun is reflecting marvelously in Crowley's eyes. No matter the prompt, Aziraphale is overcome, and he leans in to bridge the space between them on the loveseat. When he presses his mouth to Crowley's, the other is motionless with shock.

The stillness lasts a mere second, no more, before Crowley is kissing him back, a delicate connection of fumbling newness and still-skittish fear. Crowley tastes of the dark cherry wine undertones and ash, but not in a bad way; instead, it smolders where they're joined, and Aziraphale wants to drift in the glorious haze of it. How long they remain that way, he doesn't know, sitting on the wicker exploring, _discovering_ , something they might have seen many years ago if only things had been a little different, a little clearer, a little more obvious.

When Aziraphale finally pulls away, it is with a pang to his chest, and he keeps his fingers against Crowley's cheek simply to continue touching him in some fashion. It makes sense now; demons are generally incapable of love, but Aziraphale has always felt the warmth surrounding Crowley. Perhaps even the Fall was not enough to strip archangels, in all their Heavenly glory, of that Divinity. Of all the qualities of the Host to retain, Aziraphale could think of no better one than love.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, and good Heavens, how his voice shakes.

“Yes, darling,” he replies. “I'm right here.”

Crowley tips his head a bit, eyes wide and blown, an odd but beguiling look for serpentine features. “Can we…?”

Aziraphale answers by sweeping in again, kissing him fiercely, and reveling in the blossom of love surrounding them both.

++

Angels don't dream, but demons do.

Crowley sees colors and shapes, bits of the Divine long since gone, but even now, they remain at his side, wearing tartan bow ties and out-of-fashion vests. In dreams, he can drag his hand through the memories and see slices of himself before the Fall, fragments of Heaven simmering long-lost in his mind. The Memory Dream is thick and potent, and as Crowley wakes with a start and a half-cry, slow to dissolve.

He shakes, putting a hand to his forehead, until a warm arm snakes around his midsection and tugs him closer.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley sags against his heat. Perhaps the Memory Dreams aren't so bad, not really, not when he's, against all odds, retained a tiny sliver of Heaven.


End file.
